


Second Chances

by Toshi_Nama



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fade to Black, Flashbacks, Forgive Me, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Scars, Shipping, Tent Sex, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26300911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: They'd always known nothing could come of it - a Knight-Captain and the Champion? Better to keep things quiet. Then they found themselves on opposite sides, and went their separate ways. It was for the best, right up until Varric's letter inadvertently brought them back in contact, years and a war later.They had nothing in common except duty and the past.They had nothing different except a war no one wanted.Could this time be different?If it could, he had only one person to thank - the friend who kept believing in him, even when he didn't.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast & Cullen Rutherford, Female Hawke & Jean-Marc Stroud, Female Hawke/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smolwarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolwarden/gifts), [Ginipig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/gifts).



It had been nothing more than respect and stress, Cullen had told himself when they fell into her bed the first time. She’d helped with Wilmod, Maker keep his soul, and then took him to the Hanged Man as soon as he had given his report.

He knew exactly what she was offering when she said she had a nice bed if he wasn’t interested in his own - it wasn’t the first time he’d been propositioned. Besides, _she_ hadn’t been any more interested in the drinking or cards that night than he.

And then one night turned into two, turned into five, turned into him spending most off nights at the Hawke estate, enough that Bodhan started ordering extra for breakfast and there was a place set for him at the table by Leandra.

He’d been there for her when Fenris ran to get him, saying it was a Maleficar. That night, she’d just curled in his arms and cried, still smelling of chemicals and blood. The hairs on his arms prickled at the memory, and he brushed them down absently as he watched a distant figure on Skyhold’s furthest battlements. At least they’d kept it from the damned dwarf. No whisper showed up in his _Tale of the Champion._ He thanked the Maker for that: neither of them should have to answer the questions that would have brought out.

It had been four years since she’d left Kirkwall. It had been one since he had. She’d surely moved on with her life, just as he had.

Cullen sighed into the crisp mountain air, then went back to the ink and parchment, reports and sunlight trickling through the hole in his roof he adamantly refused to get patched.

**

“...and so when the Seeker gave her ‘invitation,’ I couldn’t say no, not really. But…”

Varric’s voice washed over her as she stared into the countryside torn apart by the war that she might have helped start. From Skyhold’s mountaintops above the clouds she couldn’t see the blood and death, couldn’t hear the screams or see the refuse dropped by refugees too afraid to turn around.

Once, she’d been a refugee like that.

Now they ran from what she…

“Hawke?”

Shira turned away from her thoughts and to the dwarf that hadn’t changed since she saw him last, years ago. “Did he cause all this?”

Varric dropped the bottle, where it made its own puddle of blood-red and glass. “Shit! No, Hawke, you know better than that. Blondie tried, but all this shit was years later.” The sourness in his voice was still there. “Do you know…”

“No. Not for a while. We fell out of touch.”

“Never thought _that_ would happen.”

“I suppose not,” she murmured, thinking back. She’d supported Anders, backed him when Meredith blamed the Circle for what he’d done, only to realize that Orsino was no better - and that she’d been wrong about him. Sometime in the hectic escape, she’d fallen in bed with the rebel Warden only to realize that she was using his love for her to erase another set of warm brandy eyes. It wasn’t fair to either of them, and it’s not like there was ever anything but desperation behind it...especially as she finally admitted just how much acid churned in her belly thanks to his actions, his certainty that he knew best. He’d been enthralled. She’d had the wool ripped from her eyes. It wasn’t long before she ended it and fled again, to the Wardens that Anders wouldn’t dare go near.

Bethany had been pleased she’d come to her senses.

So had Stroud. It had been a home for a while, this time her baby sister sheltering _her_ and hiding _her,_ rather than the other way around.

When she fell into Stroud’s bed she realized it was time to go. He’d kissed her cheek, mustache tickling her skin, and wished her well. Since then, she’d floated through the Marches, only to wind up _here_ when Varric’s letter reached Stroud at the same time she’d been visiting.

She thought she’d left Kirkwall behind. Shira refused to look to her left and toward the office over Skyhold’s massive gates. She was _thirty-five,_ no callow girl. The gentle woman who’d giggled and laughed with a Knight-Captain in the rare moments of secrecy they could find was gone with Kirkwall’s Chantry - even if said Knight-Captain was only fifty paces away.

“Void take it,” she swore to herself. They were both adults, and he knew she was here as well as she knew the reverse. She couldn’t leave things where she had.

“Hawke? What’re you planning now?”

Shira sighed. “Something foolish, but maybe it will help.”

“Uh-huh. Well, once you’ve gotten your fingers burned, I’ll still be here.”

**

“So, this is where you are now. I like the office.”

Cullen’s chest clenched before he forced himself to breathe regularly and finish writing the duty roster. He looked up to meet shadowed eyes the color of lyrium. His body screamed for the cool relief, but he pinched his nose and ignored it.

“Hawke,” he answered quietly. “It’s been some time.”

She leaned against the desk, her hands drifting over the stacks of requisitions and reports, requests and rosters. Duty never stopped. “Four years. Who would have thought an explosion and red lyrium would bring us together?”

Cullen sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

The unspoken horror of that night and the explosion and red lyrium that had driven them apart hung in the air between them. In the echo of her words, he could hear the screams again, taste the magic mixed among crushed limestone.

“I respected your choice, Hawke.” He had, too. He’d even understood why she’d made it, even if it tore them apart.

It was her turn to wince. “Look, I...it’s…”

He shook his head, eyes still on his desk and duty rather than the woman in front of him. If he looked up, memories and desire would drown him. He had no _time_ for that, and he did respect her choice. He would do that to neither of them. “It’s complicated,” he offered. “I understand. Was there anything else?”

Hawke’s restless fingers brushed past his reports, driving one askew, and rested on his hand long enough for his skin to burn with the contact. He refused to acknowledge what her touch still did to him. That was his weakness, not hers.

“No. There was nothing else.”

Cullen looked up soon enough to watch her leave.

**

Strong fingers ran through her hair, and Shira brushed her cheek against his palm.

“Are you alright?”

She kept her eyes closed and nodded against his hand. “I’m fine, just got my fingers burned and then ran away to find you,” she told him.

Stroud chuckled. The hand left her cheek, and one finger tapped her nose. She wrinkled it. “You’ve done so much for others, lady. You’re allowed to want for yourself.”

She blinked back memories of fire painting the windows of Lowtown red and gold, the smoke that choked her and made her sneeze. She didn’t bring up her nightmares - not again, and not when Stroud was dealing with the false Calling. It wasn’t a contest.

“Maybe, but right now, we have more important things to worry about. What we saw in the Approach…” Shira shivered. “It’s always the same.”

“Oui, cherie. We will stop it again. Your coming here was inspired.”

She smiled back at him. “Thank Varric, not me.”

Strong arms wrapped around her, and she returned the hug. “You aren’t responsible for everything, Marian Shira Hawke.”

Somehow, she’d gone from occasional lover to ‘simply’ a close friend, and she loved it. She kissed his cheek. “No more than you, but we do what we must.”

“Ah, you should have been a Warden.”

“That old thing?” Shira spoke lightly in the courtyard, but it was anything but. “We’ve talked about it before. No, Stroud. Beth doesn’t want me to join her. It’s her life, wanted or not, and I won’t ignore her wishes.”

“Just...know there are people who care. You deserve happiness, ma cherie.”

She stepped back and walked down the leaf-strewn path. “No more than anyone else.”

She didn’t look up. If anyone deserved happiness, it was the man working in his office or the training field at all hours, fighting off his own demons.

**

“Get that shield up! You’ve got to be able to get the ram at the door and protect your head at the same time!” Cullen felt the strain in his voice, even when using his diaphragm to project. The soldiers practiced again on the braced debris.

He sighed.

“They’re going to die,” he muttered.

His companion answered from her position on his right. “They are improving - and we will do what we can. The Templars you’ve assigned to this are as ready as I can make them for facing demons and enthralled blood mages.”

Cullen rubbed that spot in his forehead that ached whenever he heard the word ‘Templar,’ longing for the cool reprieve of lyrium. “Thank you, Cassandra. I worry, though.”

“Four of them are those you brought from Kirkwall,” she reminded him gently. “They are skilled, dedicated, and were able to reinforce to the others just how important the techniques are. If you open the doors, they will be ready to go in with each unit and do what they must.”

“But will it be enough?”

Now it was Cassandra’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It will be in the Maker’s hands - but you have done everything in your power to make it possible.”

“You need a new Commander.” The words were well-worn. So was Cassandra’s response.

“The Inquisition does _not._ Stop doubting yourself.” She waved her hand. “Could a general have done all of this? Perhaps, with the soldiers. But could any general have the authority you do with the Templars, to have encouraged so many to stand with the Inquisition? They look up to _you,_ Cullen, and with good reason.”

His eyes darted to her, then away. “Just because you helped me…”

“It has nothing to do with that!” Cullen hid his wince as she kept talking. “You know that, Cullen. In Haven, you were respected and trusted because you are one of the people as well as a Templar - and the Templars who came with you acted as they _should,_ more or less. Don’t let Kirkwall make you doubt yourself,” she added quietly. “You are not what your detractors claim, and you have done much to ensure such things do not happen again.”

He let his lip quirk, the scar from Meredith’s mailed gauntlet stretching with its usual twinge. Then he raised his voice again. “Better! Put some weight behind it, and work together!”

With a shout, the thirty below him pushing on the ram drove it forward, and the ‘gate’ splintered.

“You see? They believe in themselves because you won’t let them do anything but succeed.”

**

She looked over casually before she returned her gaze to the outer ramparts and the clouds that masked Skyhold from the world. At least someone could pull him from his duty.

That was good.

Shira breathed deeply of the cold, thin air, and let it out in a cloud of steam.

That was good.

_Even if it wasn’t her._

It didn’t matter. Cullen deserved better than a woman that would only bring back the horrors of Kirkwall with every conversation, every look, and she’d remind herself of that until she believed it. They’d shared _something_ secret over the course of years, but they’d never promised each other a future - and that had ended years ago, in magic and death.

He respected her choice.

She’d respect his.

**

On the battlements again, he breathed across his hot soup, letting the steam wreath around his face.

Hawke was up there again, pacing the section she’d claimed as her own. This time, Varric wasn’t up drinking with her - or at her, since she rarely did more than sip when he brought a bottle or two.

She had white wings in her dark hair now, scatters of stars across the darkness.

Cullen shook his head. She wanted nothing to do with him, and he knew it. She had made her choice: she had protected the man who’d set everything in motion. He’d said his goodbyes.

“What is it, Cullen?”

He shook his head again and took a sip of his soup. “Just memories,” he said to Cassandra.

She took a sip of her own and glanced around. “Bullshit,” she replied gently. “Are you wondering why Hawke didn’t come earlier? Why she vanished?”

“No. I knew why she didn’t.” _And that was what tore them apart._ But it was also four years ago. He wasn’t a callow youth, to pine over what was in the past, and he was no cad to push where he wasn’t wanted. “How long until we go to Adamant?”

They both knew the answer, but she accepted the change in subject.

“Two days.”

**

“Why are you coming? This is a Warden matter.”

The Inquisitor fiddled with her reins, but looked Shira in the eye. “Because it’s my responsibility, like it or not. If Erimond is using magic directly from Corypheus, then maybe I’m the only one who _can_ stop it. And it has to be stopped, we’ve talked about that. Corypheus wants this thing back, but it’s all we’ve got against him. And the Wardens need help, so I’m going to help them.”

Shira didn’t look at the other woman’s left hand, the glove hiding the Anchor from view. Instead, she looked at her horse’s black-edged ears. She tried not to think about lazy mornings where she wore his shirt just to tease him into interrupting her making their breakfast, the way he tasted, the scars she’d traced with fingers and tongue, or how his own left streaks of fire along her skin. His eyes had been warm, once, before she’d done what she thought no one else could do. ‘Trying to help’ only led to ruin in Kirkwall.

“Be careful with those sorts of phrases, Inquisitor,” she said softly. “They can lead places you never wanted to go, and destroy what matters most, all for naught.”

If only she’d known that then.

**

He carefully stayed away from where the Inquisitor was travelling, much as he admired her. It wasn’t her, or the half-truth he gave about needing to remain with his soldiers, but rather her riding companion, swaying gently on the back of a sweet-tempered bay. The few times he needed to talk to the Inquisitor about some matter, or to confirm their plans, Hawke pulled back to ride next to Varric’s pony or otherwise looked off into the distance.

He could remember her lyrium eyes, the sweet smile she had after she came. But that was the past. He’d had other partners since her, even if none of them had lasted. Certainly so had she - not that it mattered, but there was no reason to expect or even want her to have done otherwise on his account.

Cassandra travelled with him rather than the Inquisitor.

“What is it?”

She smiled at him, her scar shifting on her cheek. “Your company is more restful. The Inquisitor is a good woman, but she is chatty.”

He nodded. There was something restful about a companion that didn’t need to fill every moment with a comment or question, where he could toss a waterskin and receive a bread roll in return.

“You’ll keep her safe, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.” Cassandra’s voice was certain. “She means too much to you to do otherwise.”

Cullen’s own rangy roan snorted as his hands tightened on the reins. One hand reached forward to pat his neck in apology. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, she means too much to the Inquisition, of course.”

He watched her closely, but all he could see was her profile as she examined the Templars, still riding together rather than with the bulk of the soldiers. It was blank, and he wasn’t about to call her a liar.

“Of course,” he said dryly, and cursed himself. Anything he felt was nothing but the shock of seeing her again. That was all.

**

Shira could see him, past the mane of her borrowed horse. He’d kept growing - she hadn’t missed his new scars, or the lines leadership had drawn into his face. He wore them well.

Very well.

Could he still laugh with a lover? After what she’d done, could he still trust enough to let someone into his bed - which would mean letting someone into his heart? She pressed her cheek against the horse’s neck and breathed in the mix of sweat and hay that seemed to be a part of the beast. Its mane tickled her forehead, but she ignored it for the sensation of someone warm and strong that she could rest against, just for a moment.

Just one moment more, then she’d be the Champion again - the Champion of Varric’s stories, not the empty title that she thought she’d left behind.

_Cullen had believed in the Champion as well as Shira._

He had, right up until she let horror push her into a choice she never should have made. How could she have forgotten everything she’d seen? Mercy. Anders had played on her belief in mercy, and the result had almost broken her faith in it.

She’d heard about his efforts to keep the peace here - to bring back the peace that the past four years had shattered. _He’s a better Commander than I was a Champion. All I can think about is him - and all I can do is hide it so I don’t embarrass him more than I already have._

**

Adamant was terrible. Blood and magic filled the air, choking him with memories. Demons hissed and spit, and there was a subtle wrongness about the quality of the light.

_Kinloch._

_Kirkwall._

“I can’t hold the opening long, Inquisitor!” He shouted and focused on her, rather than those next to her or what was happening up on the walls. The Templars went with the soldiers, their focus on the demons as the soldiers concentrated on taking down any Warden that drew a blade.

“Hold it as long as you can, Commander.”

He saluted and she dove in, her companions behind her. Their own Warden, the Orlesian one Hawke had named friend, Varric, and their own spirit went with. Cullen grabbed Cassandra’s arm just before she joined them.

“Be careful, Cass.”

Her forearm clasped his. “You too, Cullen. As the Maker wills it.”

“As the Maker wills.” _Though all before me is shadow…_

She believed in him. She would protect the Inquisitor - and _he_ would ensure what they did was not in vain. “Next wave!” he called to the soldiers. “Have faith in the Inquisitor! To victory!”

There would be no victory won here on the walls, but he _would_ hold. Even without lyrium, he would hold.

And when the Terror demon came hissing and spitting from in front of his men, he dove forward with sword and shield. He would not falter. He would not fail.

**

They came after her in the Fade, whispering what she’d done - or what she’d failed to do. _‘How many times will your desire for mercy kill the very people you seek to defend, hm? And what about him, the one you leave to clean up your failures?’_

“Shut up, demon!” It had been so long since she’d shouted, but it felt _good._ She wouldn’t do it. Not that he cared anything about her, he’d made _that_ clear, but this was her mess. She was the one who released Corypheus. She’d be the one to deal with this…

...this monster that had gorged itself on the Wardens and the Blight. This time she wouldn’t run, even as their best efforts didn’t make a large enough gap to flee again.

“This is my problem! _My_ responsibility. If it hadn’t been for me, Corypheus would still be in his prison!”

Stroud smiled at her, using the time that the creature was breathing in their terror of being trapped, one last time. “Come here, cherie.” 

She hugged him close. “Goodbye, dear friend. Take care of Bethany for me, please?”

His arms tightened, then he threw her at Varric.

“NO!”

“Take care of her yourself, Shira. She does not deserve to lose a sister - or you, a future.”

Varric dragged her back, strong despite how much shorter he was, as she screamed. 

“Come _on,_ Hawke! You can’t stop him, there’s no point in us losing you, too!”   
  
_“NO!”_ She broke free and rushed forward. “No, don’t do this! Go, Stroud! The Wardens need _you,_ not me!”

**

The enormous rift warped at his senses as whispers of his past stampeded through his mind. Cullen fought with all the skill he’d learned in the past decade to push them back, focusing on the soldiers who needed him and the Wardens who had started to pull back, horrified at what was before them. He had presence of mind enough to spot when the Wardens en masse reacted to _something,_ shaking their heads, snapping to attention, falling down, or otherwise stumbling around the battlements.

“Hold! Lay down your arms and hold!”

Wonder of wonders, they did it. Between their leader dying to Corypheus’ dragon, the sight of the dragon itself, or whatever just happened, the Wardens started calling to each other and disengaging, or turning to fight the remaining demons with the Inquisition’s soldiers. Exhaustion caught up to him, but he couldn’t give in yet.

“The Inquisitor! Where is she?”

Someone gave back an answer that chilled him. “She fell from the tower, Commander - there was a green flash.”

 _Maker have mercy._ “The others? Stroud, the Seeker,” no point in asking about Cole, “the dwarf and…” his throat clenched.

 _Hawke_.

Hawke, who’d come back because of Corypheus, because of the Wardens.

Hawke, who he _should not have these feelings for,_ but he did.

_Maker help him, he did._

“Templars, forward! Wardens, if any of you are formerly of the Order, come forward! We must stand ready for that...what could come from the rift.” The other orders came out smoothly. Of the two dozen Templars that had come with, seventeen yet stood. Another dozen of the Wardens moved forward, their faces set. While they fought darkspawn now, he could smell the lyrium coming off them like a lightning strike.

Then it opened and figures started falling out. Varric shepherded Cole and rushed to one side, followed by others. The bursts of magic drove daggers into his mind until his vision blurred. Three figures, followed.

Three.

_Who had fallen?_

“Commander?” The voice came through a long tunnel.

“Cullen!”

**

She woke up and regretted it. Her eyelids hurt. Her bones throbbed in time with her heart. Her fingers felt broken, and she could hardly breathe. Her eyes wouldn’t open.

If this was dead, she wanted to complain. At least the Nightmare was no longer whispering in her mind...she thought. Two swords, slashing as one - curses in Orlesian - a steel arm wrapping around her from behind…

“What happened?” was what she wanted to say. What she said was “Mmarhk?”

Water was dribbled against her eyes, and it burned. She whimpered. Then it was brushed against her lips, and her tongue snuck out to greedily lap up the moisture. Again.

Other sounds brushed against her ears - a tortured moan, and a hushed voice over it, soothing.

“Take it easy...you’re safe and you’ll recover completely.”

More water was dribbled into her mouth, and then something bitter-sweet. Shira had enough time to recognize it as a potion before sleep pounced again.

**

Cullen woke again, nerves raw. They’d said it was a side-effect of the combination of the Fadde, the demon, and his own lyrium withdrawal - or so he’d gathered from the conversations they’d had when he was asleep, mixed with their platitudes when he was awake. Cassandra’s questions had been pointed. She’d known he wasn’t asleep every time, and that while the healers might act out of concern, the unknown was an enemy to him.

He ached for lyrium. He could feel the need reaching through his veins, taste the cool relief against his tongue if he just thought about it. It was all a lie, though. Lyrium might ease his pain now, but the debt would be called in later. That debt, he was no longer willing to pay.

There was a stirring not far from him, and he suppressed a groan as he turned his head from the dun canvas over his head to the pallet on his left. It was not a healer, not unless the healers had changed more than he could imagine. Instead of their careful neatness, pinned hair, and painfully antiseptic cleanliness, he saw a wild mane of dark hair and a freckle-coated arm that almost hurt to look at.

He knew that arm, and the hand attached to it. He’d heard the story of the blackberry bramble that left so many fine scars along the fingertips, the jagged triangle that was leftover from a Coterie crossbow bolt in Darktown. _There_ was a burn scar from Huon, who had objected to being brought back to the Circle after murdering his wife for her blood, but the long one stretching from elbow to bicep was new.

Hawke. It had to be Hawke. He closed his eyes to send a silent thanks to Andraste, then opened them again. This was his chance to see her up close, without her knowing.

The thought was dirty: did she know they shared an invalid tent? On the other hand, it wasn’t like he was going to strip her blanket or touch her in any way. Hands. Her outstretched hand was close enough for him to see the calluses that meant she’d not just stayed in training with her sword, but had done hard work as well. _“I’m a farmer’s daughter, Knight-Captain,”_ her laughing voice teased in his memories. _“I know how to earn my keep and what an honest day’s work is. I won’t forget just because Mother got her title back.”_

The fourth knuckle was a little swollen. Was it arthritis, gout, or something only part-healed? Her vein showed pulsing blue against her skin. She’d had more color before. Was it because of the hiding she’d done from the Wardens, from Cassandra...Void, even from the mobs of people who only wanted to meet the infamous Champion of Kirkwall and ask about Anders?

Her wrist was still thick with muscle, but he’d seen just how supple it could be when it was time to spin a blade from over- to under-hand. She usually wore long sleeves - the change in color was near the wrist, not further up her arm.

A change in the shallow breathing caused him to snap his eyes up, and _there_ was lyrium that wouldn’t offer forgetfulness.

“You’re alive.” Her words were hardly more than the breath that caught his attention.

“I could say the same to you,” he replied just as quietly. “I should apologize, I don’t know who put us together here…”

Shirae worried her bottom lip in her teeth. “I...don’t mind.” Her face tightened, the angles showing in stark relief. Her voice had never _not_ had an effect on him, even before he acknowledged it. It was husky and warm, even when it was as tentative as a new recruit. “”I...four years is a long time. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She didn’t sniffle, but he could see the lines of tears making tracks from her red-rimmed eyes to the pillow under her head.

Then he looked into those eyes, and lost his breath entirely.

“You did what you thought was right,” Cullen replied haltingly. He had more energy than she, it seemed; he traced her cheek with his fingertips and watched her eyes dilate before she closed them and sniffled. 

How much pain had she hidden to not ‘be a burden?’ He was starting to realize the cost, and pressed his forehead against hers, breathing deeply of sweat, nutmeg, and healing herbs. She’d smelled of nutmeg and flowering nettles in Kirkwall, he remembered that well. Their breaths matched, then he withdrew to look in her eyes again.

“You saw the truth of Meredith before I did. If you need to apologize, then...so do I.”

Her other hand reached up and squeezed his against her cheek. Then she held his gaze with hers and shifted just enough to kiss his palm. Lightning shot through him, stronger than any lyrium dose.

**

“So,” Cullen said as he finished saddling his roan, “who’s idea was it to conveniently put Hawke and I into the same convalescent space? Coincidence seems like a bit much.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Perhaps you had a friend who felt your nobility was misplaced. It also was the most practical solution. Unless you are choosing to object? You certainly haven’t done so over the past four days.”

He certainly hadn’t objected. They were trapped with no one but each other, ten hours a day. That was a lot of time for halting, painful topics to come up and get talked out when neither of them had the energy to avoid them. Cullen chuckled - talking wasn't the only thing that happened, even if it was the first. His roan blew in his hair as he tightened the girth, then pet his neck.

“And it couldn’t at all have been a secret romantic, hm?” Cullen glanced over to catch her eyes widen in supposed shock.

“Of course not! Who in the Inquisition would that fit?”

“Who indeed,” he replied dryly, then mounted. Further along, Shira had already done the same. Their eyes met briefly: she looked away first, her cheek reddening just a bit beneath her freckles. He shifted in the saddle.

“After you, Commander.”

He nodded and raised his hand. The remainder of the Inquisition’s army started marching forward at the called orders of his Captains. He sat his roan, watching them move. “Privacy’s a hard thing to find these days,” he said to himself.

Cassandra smiled warmly. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

He really would have to thank her, he realized as his eyes drifted over to the woman sitting on her dark bay. Later, perhaps. He had a lot of catching up to do first.


End file.
